Chapter 6: The Power Play

The next night, I was at home making maggi when suddenly the power went out.

I was just about to add the masala when the fan stopped spinning and the kitchen light flickered off. The aroma of masala hung in the air, unfinished, like a sentence cut short.

That shouldn’t happen—I’d just paid the electricity bill yesterday.

I immediately realised what was up.

No need to check the main fuse—anyone in my position would know who was behind this mischief.

I went out to the electrical panel in the hallway, and sure enough, my breaker had been flipped.

The fluorescent tube in the corridor cast a ghostly glow on the panel. My own shadow looked suspicious. But the panel told the whole story—one breaker down, all others up.

The door across from me was tightly shut, acting like nothing happened.

I have to say, tricks like smearing filth and cutting power are truly disgusting—hard to guard against, and there’s never any evidence. Even if you caught them and called the police, at most they’d get a warning. Nothing more.

Most normal people would be driven mad by neighbours like this.

But now that they’ve met me, the only ones who’ll suffer are them.

I smiled, calmly flipped the breaker back on, and went inside.

Not long after, the power went out again.

The maggi sat half-cooked on the stove. I rolled my eyes, grabbed my chappals, and went out once more.

I did the same as before, quietly flipping it back on.

The third time the power went out, I unhurriedly opened my door.

By now, my patience had run out. I opened the door with the slow, dramatic flair of a Bollywood villain entering the scene.

The bald man was standing under the electrical panel, right hand clamped tight around the breaker. When he saw me, he looked a little panicked.

"What, is flipping breakers your new hobby?"

His hand froze in place, eyes darting between me and the panel. If guilt had a smell, it would have reeked more than his mango pickle.

The bald man tried to pull his hand away with all his might, but it wouldn’t budge.

I grinned: "That’s Fevikwik, bhaiya. Feels nice, doesn’t it?"

Only then did he realise he’d fallen right into my trap.

"Arrey yaar! You set me up!"

The corridor echoed with my laughter, and as the corridor echoed with my laughter, I realised—this building was about to become the stage for the best drama Mumbai had seen in years.